Strapless (3 page)

“Went to hell in less than five minutes.” He glanced up again from the paper. “Four minutes after we dealt with your presentation. Order anything you like. I'm told the
daily special—coq au vin—is pretty good. Chicken,” he said when Darcie just blinked.

Blindly, she took the menu she was handed. She couldn't decipher a word, but not because it was in French. Even the translation didn't register. Her mind whirred in circles. Walt had warned her only yesterday that as a relatively junior employee it was unlikely the board would approve her appointment. And, Darcie knew, with Greta Hinckley in contention…

Hope skipped inside her. She scanned the entrees for the most expensive item, testing the waters. “How about lobster Newburg?”

“Go for it.”

Her pulse sped. “You mean…”

He laid the newspaper beside his salad plate. His lips twitched. “Let's order wine. Or would you prefer champagne?”

Her mouth went dry.

“I…don't like champagne.”

Could it happen? More money…a
future?
As if signaling the start of her imagined prosperity, Walt snapped his fingers. The waiter appeared with a bottle of chilled Chardonnay. Darcie watched him pour a pale-golden stream into her glass after Walt had tasted the wine. Her heart hammered harder than it did whenever Gran's pet Persian cat cornered Darcie in a surprise attack. When they were alone again, he lifted his stemmed goblet.

“Here's to my new Assistant to the Manager of Global Expansion for—”

“Walt! I love you!” She shouted it through the whole restaurant.

“—Wunderthings International.”

“Oh. Oh Jesus. God. Oh—” She knocked over her wine. “I can't believe this.”

She had talent, ability, good ideas. She wasn't (except with Greta) afraid to speak her mind. But fickle luck, actually coming her way? Darcie tried not to grin.
I'll never be hungry again, Scarlett.

Walt sopped up the wine with his napkin. She knew he
hated messes. Hated the display of emotion for which Darcie had become justly famous in his department.

“Don't get your panties in another twist,” he said, scowling at the wet tablecloth. “There won't be a lot more money.”

Giddy, Darcie didn't care. She could manage. The opportunity, a title…

“A title, Walt.” She grinned. “Can I have that on my office door?”

“What office?”

“I don't get an office?”

“Honey, I have an office. You're still on the cubicle farm…until next year when the board can see how you've done with this first assignment.”

“I'll prove to them—” she waved an airy hand “—whatever they need me to prove.” Had they actually accepted her plan? “I'll work twenty hours a day.”

“You'll have to,” he said.

“I can do that. Jeez, I can do anything.” She drew herself up straighter. What was it Gran said? “‘I am Woman, hear me roar.'” Her voice rose again over the room full of diners. Heads turned—well, whaddya know? Some New Yorkers weren't that jaded.

Walt laid a hand over her lips. “Christ, keep it down, will you? I went to bat for you over Hinckley, and I expect you to slave for me. I expect to be pleased.”

Pleased?
For a single instant Darcie thought she'd discovered the worm in the apple of paradise. Was he propositioning her? She fought back a mental image of herself on her knees in front of Walt at his desk. Her face on a level with his swollen lap. No, never. Despite Greta's possible fantasies about him, Darcie doubted that Walt, who was a widower, had a sex life at home or at work. If he did, she sure didn't want to be part of it.

“Your wish is my command.”

Fighting a smile, he shook his head. “You're so full of shit.” After the waiter took their orders, he poured more wine into her empty water glass. New York in the midst of a torrential winter downpour was also under a water
rationing edict. Darcie couldn't imagine why—something about the reservoirs—but you had to beg for the stuff, even in five-star restaurants. As if she knew about those. Walt raised his glass. “Congratulations, Darce. Others may doubt but
I
have every confidence you'll do a fine job—make me proud. Make sure you do,” he said, then, “I hope your passport's in order.”

“Passport?”

He nodded toward the front windows where icy rain slid down the glass.

“I said, Global.” He grinned. “Isn't that what you wanted? The Pacific Rim. It's like a reprieve from hell. Nancy told me what happened—and tipped the balance in your favor. Hinckley stays here. Good presentation, Baxter—for which you get your fondest wish—the opening of Wunderthings, Sydney. It's summer there.”

“B
almy ocean breezes,” Darcie told her grandmother. “Hot sun…”

“That's a shame.” In the early evening after her trip home from Wunderthings, she watched Eden Baxter fluff another Oriental pillow on the oyster-white sofa. “I doubt you'll have time for the beach. Corwin will expect you to work.”

True. She had her chance now to prove herself—much to Greta Hinckley's dismay—and didn't intend to blow it, but excitement still flowed through Darcie's veins.

“The guidebooks tell me I can spend nine to five in the city, then be lying on the sand at Manly after a thirty-minute ferry ride.” Her specialty, Darcie supposed, owing to her daily commute across the Hudson. She might be new to this assignment, but she was a pro with ferries.

Eyeing Gran's huge gray Persian cat, which had just entered the room, Darcie felt her pulse hitch. She stepped back into the dining area. She never relaxed until she pinned down Sweet Baby Jane's location—and took up her own position as far away as possible.

“Maybe I'll reverse commute into the city. Then I could run in the mornings at the beach, grab a few rays—”

“Ah, to be young-er.”

Eden flicked a feather duster over a spotless walnut end table. Another perk of living with Gran, Darcie acknowledged. She didn't have to clean. Neither did Gran but that didn't bear pointing out. Nor did the fact that in the glow of light from the end table lamp, her grandmother's carefully groomed, rich auburn hair had an apricot cast. And white showed at her roots. She needed a touch-up.

“You'll always be young, Gran.”

She couldn't see a grin from her position by the dining table, well away from Sweet Baby Jane's predatory feline prowl, but she heard her grandmother's cheeky tone of voice. “My men keep me that way.”

“You have more boyfriends at eighty-two than an entire block of apartment-dwelling single females on the Upper East Side.”

“Isn't that
bad?
” Meaning good. Darcie eased away from the table. In the living room Eden rubbed a slender finger over a gold picture frame, checking for dust. The eagle in the expensive print seemed to glare back in disapproval, as Darcie's mother might.

“You're famed for your liaisons—in this building anyway.”

Gran paused. “Has that naughty doorman been talking again?”

“Julio?” Darcie raised her eyebrows. “I hear he's the soul of discretion.”

Eden snorted delicately. “As long as he gets his weekly tip for bringing up my groceries—gets that huge wad of bills I slip him every Christmas. I'm telling you, the list of maintenance people here who deserve ‘appreciation' every holiday season is the nearest thing to extortion.”

“Julio just likes the feel of your soft little hand in his pocket.”

“Nothing soft about
him.
” Eden turned. “Myra Goldstein says he has a shaft the size of Long Island. And she should know.”

“Jealous, Gran?”

“Who, me? If I took half an interest in that man, he wouldn't be able to walk for a month. Make that a year. Myra is no competition.”

Darcie grinned but let a few beats pass while her grandmother scooped up a stack of newspapers, some magazines. She was addicted to the
New York Times
crossword puzzle and at least twenty financial publications. Since being widowed fifteen years ago, Eden had become a success in the stock market. Her love life was equally legendary.

“If you don't behave, I'll have to tell Mom.”

Eden made the sign of the cross. “Spare me, you thankless child. That son of mine could have married well. Instead, look at him. Henpecked by that virago of a wife in Via Spiga pumps and—have you seen it?—that faux fur jacket. It looks like road kill.” She admired her own thinly strapped sandals with three-inch heels. Sweet Baby Jane wound around Eden's slim ankles before moving on. “Still, if it weren't for Janet Harrington Baxter, I wouldn't have you.”

In spite of herself—Eden said such things a hundred times a day—Darcie felt her eyes mist. “I love you, too, Gran.”

She waved away the sentiment. “You, and every man in this building.”

“That's hardly the same thing.”

“God be praised.” Eden's blue-green eyes twinkled like peridots. “I'm going to miss you, you know. There'll be no one to keep those wolves from my door.”

“With that sign dangling from the bell saying Abandon Trousers, All Ye Who Enter Here? I suppose not.” As she spoke, she tracked the cat's slow saunter in her direction. Every time Sweet Baby Jane got near, she clawed the hell out of Darcie—on purpose, Darcie felt sure. She'd never known an animal so vicious at heart
(dogs usually like me)
but the small injuries seemed worth the free rent at Gran's. Never mind the traffic.

“Darcie Elizabeth Baxter, there is no such sign.”

“There should be,” she had just said when, without
warning, Sweet Baby Jane's sharp teeth suddenly clamped down on her calf. Darcie yelped, but Eden chose not to notice. Her beloved pet could do no wrong.

“I am far from being a promiscuous woman. At my age?” She covered her heart with scarlet-tipped fingernails. With the exception of her one mild heart attack years ago, Eden remained in excellent health, allowing for occasional bouts of angina during stress. “Don't be ridiculous. If you even think of spreading that vicious rumor, no one will believe you.”

Darcie shook off the cat, trying not to draw Eden's attention, her leg stinging.

“They won't listen,” she teased. “They know you.”

“Well.” Eden raised a perfectly penciled brow. “The last man who slept in my bed did leave with a big smile on his face.”

“Norman?”

“No, not Norman. Jerome Langley.”

Darcie rubbed her injured calf. “The little bald Jewish guy who never holds open the elevator door? He picks his nose, Gran. I'm disappointed in you. Again.”

“The last man—it may have been Norman at that—was six months ago.” Eden spun Darcie toward the stairs that led to the second level of the apartment. “How promiscuous is that?”

“Not very. But you're lying.”

Her grandmother marched her across the pale-beige carpet, Sweet Baby Jane following Eden like a devoted dog. “You'll never know. And although I'll miss you, it's time to pack instead of snooping in my romantic business.”

“You're right. But did I tell you? They sun topless over there.”

Gran's steps faltered. “That southern hemisphere sun is strong, I'm told, and the new hole in the ozone doesn't help. Be careful then—but do show your wares, Darcie. You have nice breasts, which some Australian hunk is bound to appreciate. With a bit of ‘exposure' there's no telling what you'll find.”

“You want me to look for a man?” And bare herself so he'd even notice?

“You're not getting younger yourself, dear. It's time you considered a home of your own, several children…not right away…but still, a nice hard organ to bump up against you every night.” She repeated, “Every night, Darcie.”

She groaned. “I'll see Merrick twice this week.”

Darcie had a sudden image of him on Monday, Palm Pilot in hand.
Thursday night's free, too. Same time, same place.

“Then by all means,” Eden murmured, “let's fling open the patio doors and shout. Loud enough that those idiots trying to kill each other in traffic on the bridge can hear—” she waved toward the George Washington “—that
man
has seen fit to bestow his presence
and
his sexual attributes—”

“Down, Gran.” She was blushing. When Sweet Baby Jane smirked at her, Darcie sidestepped the cat. While Eden wasn't looking she booted SBJ gently in the rear. With a shriek of outrage, the animal streaked upstairs to lie in wait for her.

“Why, what happened, my little furball?” Eden called. As if she didn't know.

Darcie cleared her throat for attention. “It's not only Merrick's fault we don't see each other often. I have the trip across the river to consider.”

“Horse pucky.”

At the stairs to the upper floor Eden dumped her duster in a teak stand by the shorter flight of steps that led down to her small foyer. No cloud rose from the clump of feathers, which seemed to satisfy her.

“I know you don't welcome my meddling. But if I were you,” she said, “I'd kick Merrick's highly toned ass right down an elevator shaft at the Grand Hyatt. You can do better. Remember your father's mistake.”

Gran had a point. Her words about Merrick only echoed Claire's.

“Merrick does like Via Spigas, too,” Darcie admitted.

Eden grinned. “I
am
going to miss you. You always make me laugh.”

But before Darcie could put a foot on the first step to go upstairs, and shut her bedroom door before the cat could find her, Eden caught her arm. “Here's more advice—which I urge you to heed, dear. It's a very good sign for future happiness. Never—but
never
—marry a man who can't make you roar with laughter.”

“Assuming I find this paragon of masculinity while I'm in Sydney
working,
would you like me to bring you one, too?”

“Don't stop there. A pair would be nice. In those sexy Akubra hats.”

 

“Roll over, babe. You know you love it from behind.”

Darcie couldn't imagine what she'd done to deserve such sweet nothings in her ear—just as she couldn't comprehend Merrick's indifference to her news last night that she was going to Australia. He'd barely said a word. In the dark hotel room on Friday near dawn she came awake to the murmured male voice beside her. A hard arm lightly covered with honeyed hair wrapped around her waist to drag her closer across the warm sheets, then turned her. A hard appendage jutted against her spine, insistently moving in a provocative rhythm Darcie recognized too well—but at the moment didn't welcome.

His delivery left something to be desired, too. His attitude.

“Would you stop? Merrick, quit.” She shoved hair out of her eyes and struggled up in bed. She stared at him, bleary-eyed, then squinted at the clock on the night table. How had she slept so long? “It's almost 5:00 a.m. I need to get home to change for work. You know Gran worries when I don't come back all night.”

“That's what you get for living with an eighty-two-year-old woman.” His laugh turned into a groan when she jabbed his ribs. “Ouch. I bet she hasn't made love in four decades.”

“You're wrong.” So wrong he couldn't imagine. “And rude.”

“Come on, I'm joking. I could tell, the one night we had dinner at her place, that she had eyes for me.” He reached for Darcie again, his long-fingered hand grazing a breast before she scooted away. “You wouldn't run off and leave a man in need, would you?”

Darcie didn't plan them. The words popped out.

“Claire thinks you're married.”

Merrick sat up. “Claire should mind her own business.”

“Are you?” Darcie persisted.

“If I was, I wouldn't tell her.”

“Or me?” she couldn't help saying.

His gaze flickered. “What is this, Darce? We went to dinner. Fell into bed. Had a good time. Just like usual. Didn't we?”

“Did we?” She wasn't sure at the moment.

“Christ's sake.” He rolled out of bed, raising the scent of stale sheets. “If you're going to get funky on me with the relationship thing, I'm gone.”

“The relationship thing?”

“You know. ‘It's time for us to talk about commitment.' Wedding rings. Honeymoons on Maui or St. Kitt's.” He grimaced. “Babies.”

“What's wrong with children? You always tell me you love kids.”

“Sure, somebody else's.” He leaned over to plant a kiss on her mouth while an image of his sweet-faced nephew, then Claire's newborn daughter flashed through Darcie's mind. “Why would you want to get fat and gassy carrying some guy's brat?”

“I don't. Yet. But someday…” With someone, she thought.

He brushed another kiss along her collarbone. “You sure can't see me walking the floor with a squalling infant, can you?”

Hmm. With that image, another flash of memory caught her. Merrick in a dimly lit bar the night they met. Merrick, with his smooth blond hair, his dark-blue eyes, his upper-
class smile, talking her into bed that first time. Then a newer fantasy came to mind: Merrick, pushing a baby carriage. Obviously, a far-off vision he didn't share.

“No, I suppose not.” She didn't know why but disappointment surged inside her. “I suppose your nephew's birthday party is enough for a man of your stature….”

“What, are you being sarcastic?”

Darcie slid from bed to face him, toes digging in the carpet. “No. Are you?”

“What nephew?” he said.

She frowned. “The little boy you told me about. Remember? The one who learned to ride a tricycle before he was two. The favorite nephew who could throw a baseball at five and knew how to swim when he turned six. You bragged about him.”

“Oh. That nephew.”

Darcie blinked. “Merrick, how could you forget?”

“I didn't. Jesus, I'm only half-awake.” He turned toward the bathroom. “Since we're both up—” he gestured at her wild hair, at his jutting boxer shorts “—and there's nothing happening here, between us that is, I guess I'll get moving. The earlier I get to work, the more money I'll make today—if the market's up, too.”

Darcie stared after him. Claire's words, then Gran's, kept running through her brain.
You can do better. Never marry (or sleep with?) a man who can't make you roar with laughter.

She
should
have stayed in Ohio. She should never have met Merrick.

No, it was only that she didn't expect things to work out with men just because they never had. But some day they would… Until then, logically it didn't make sense to give up regular sex with Merrick, even if he could be a pain otherwise.